


Run For Your Life Part II

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: ...so you should think, Gen, George gets pissed because John got pissed, John gets pissed, and also I made them French rather than English or Russian, and muggers, well that's brilliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Oh shit DO AS THE TITLE SAYS





	

I went upstairs, had my first shower since I’d been at home, put my phone onto a much-needed charge and collapsed in the bed and slept a silent, untouched sleep.  
‘Now what?!’ I heard a yell from downstairs. From knowing a person for less than a week, I was surprised that I could recognise that it was John’s voice.   
‘For fuck’s sake, I don’t know!’ George yelled back at John.  
‘You are lots of help, aren’t you?’ John replied. I heard a smash of something ceramic.   
‘I didn’t even know shit was going to happen! Heck, I didn’t think I would ever fucking see you again! And still you had forty fucking years to find me and still nothing!’ George sounded really riled up by this point. I started shaking, remembering all the times my parents had fought, knowing that an argument meant someone getting hurt, namely me. I dragged the covers over the top of my head, hoping the slight protection it gave would be enough, even though it normally wasn’t and was tossed aside like paper. But no hard blow fell upon me, just more yelling.  
‘Next time you decide to get pissed, don’t come back in the fucking morning!’ George slammed some form of hard surface, and with enough force to be heard from where I was, surely hurting George in the process. John knocked into the walls as he made his way into his room. I felt it was probably safe to get up and dressed. As I grabbed out a fresh shirt, which happened to be my grey Star Wars shirt, and another pair of jeans to replace the ripped pair I wore the day before. I didn’t bother about putting shoes on, just my tattered, held-together-by-one-thread sheepskin slippers to move around the house in. I was exhausted, and I wondered if I had brought my sleeping pills with me. I searched throughout my luggage, getting more worried as I searched to no avail, but finally I put my hand on the bottle. I took it downstairs with me to put in the refrigerator. Small shards of white, curved ceramic were still scattered upon the bench, and George was nowhere to be seen. I ignored it, but I accidentally spotted the dustpan and broom in a hidden spot, so I decided it must be cleaned up at some point, why not now? The clinking of the debris somehow reminded me further of what happened at home, with a broken glass leading to more arguing, and more hate and pain. I expected to turn around to see a looming figure, but there was nothing but the white expanse of the room and the occasional brightly coloured furniture, reminding me of the utter emptiness death must be. I silently ran upstairs, trying not to be heard, an old habit that never ended up working. Never could I hide beneath the bed, and certainly I couldn’t now. I tried to remind myself that I wouldn’t get hurt here, I was safe and I couldn’t be reached. But the fight between John and George was drunken, and that’s how the worst arguments start. At least it had calmed down, and I pushed the tears back into my eyes. I wiped my streaming face down and went back into the upstairs corridor. Loud snoring came from John’s room, louder than I remember him doing before. George was leaning against the wall, between the bathroom door and the door that I presumed must lead into his room.  
‘What happened earlier, then?’ I asked.  
‘John came back drunk. He must remember he’s immortal, not indestructible.’ George sighed.  
‘I suppose that’s why I haven’t seen you smoking at all.’ I leaned next to him.  
‘Yeah, that and I half kicked the habit from the treatment.’ he replied. A moment of silence came after that, punctuated only by John’s drunken snores.   
‘I suppose you haven’t been here before. I don’t think I can trust John here alone, so just go by yourself.’ George said. I nodded, and went back into my room, pulled on the Converses I always seemed to wear, and borrowed the set of spare keys hanging from the silvery-golden hook by the front door. I shut the door, and stepped out into the foreign atmosphere of Hamburg. I used my phone to translate the German that my little repertoire of the language didn’t know, and saw what the city had to offer. I even did the fangirly thing of visiting the places The Beatles performed at that were still around. But soon enough, I found myself in a chocolate store. The prices were steep, but I still managed to buy a small amount of chocolate frogs. As it neared three, I turned around and found my way back to George’s house. I wasn’t paying too much attention to the two, black clad men following me by a quarter mile. I noticed out of the very corner of my eye that they turned the corner, but took nothing of it. There was an alleyway, graffitied like the entrance to Lucy’s hellhole. I felt I was too close to an unhealthy place like that but before I could walk a bit further away from it, a heavy hand slapped me on the shoulder and hung on tight. I was dragged back into the alley, and the two men took hold and flung me against the wall hard. I slumped down to the ground.  
‘No need to be afraid, the pain will only last a few seconds.’ the left man said, in an accent I took to be French. At least it wasn’t Russian or English. I didn’t have time to smirk at the typical line before a stiletto blade was drawn by the second.  
‘Ah.’ was all I could mutter. Stiletto blades, as I recall from a book I read a while before, left no mark for investigators to find, while the victim’s blood filled the lungs, drowning them. I didn’t need to think before I foolishly tried to tackle the stiletto holding man, but surprisingly it worked as he was not expecting me to try to tackle someone his size, a whole seven inches taller. The next thing I did was run, with what the men made up for in intimidation they lacked in speed. I wasn’t exactly fast myself, but after a near-death experience you definitely don’t want to try it again. I hoped they were only thieves.   
~To Be Continued~


End file.
